


Burning

by McKay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10957206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/McKay
Summary: Two nekkid men in bed. That's pretty much it.





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2002.

His skin is like cream beneath my hands, just as pale and delicious, gleaming with a sheen of sweat from our exertions. His hair spreads like fire on my pillow, auburn-gold highlights glistening in the firelight. I am caught in a moment in which all I can hear is the rain pattering against the high-set window, the soft pops and crackles from the hearth, and our breathing, rapid and harsh.

Have I kissed those parted, flushed lips enough? I'm not certain it's possible, but I want to try. He parts them eagerly for me, drawing in my tongue and sucking gently before letting me explore with it, letting me imprint his taste on it.

I move my mouth to his ear. I close my teeth on his earring, giving it a light tug. He moans. I feel his fingers digging into my back as I seek out all the little places on his neck that make him writhe. His body is slim, yes, but possessed of unexpected strength. It's a common trait among Weasleys, in both body and spirit.

Tall, slender, beautiful -- I feel like a starved man at a banquet with this luscious feast laid out before me. We are both naked, our clothes strewn across the floor of my cold, austere bedroom, and he is lying beneath me with an enviable lack of self-consciousness. I prop myself up beside him on one elbow and smooth the other hand down his torso, detouring to caress his nipples, which are hardened bumps beneath my palm. Crinkly hair tickles my skin; it's coarse, darker red than that on his head, and sprinkled generously on his chest and down to his stomach, where it forms a thick, soft nest which I can't resist combing with my fingers. He purrs, watching me through half-lidded eyes that flutter shut when I slide my hand down and close it around his erection.

Steel beneath velvet, a cliche description, but no less apt for all of that. He is full and hard and leaking -- and I have brought him to this state. A triumphant smile tugs my lips as I swirl my thumb amid his emissions, spreading it enough to prevent chafing when I begin stroking him slowly. He gasps and begins rolling his hips to match the rhythm of my strokes, which I maintain at a slow and steady pace.

I could bring him off now if I pleased. He is utterly at my mercy, and not for the first time in his life. I remember the night I caught him pilfering ingredients from my classroom supply closet late one night. A look at his chosen loot revealed his intentions: a love potion. I had demanded to know why he intended to make one. I merely wanted to know if he were making it for himself alone, or if there was some conspiracy among the students to circulate it; adolescent hormones and powerful aphrodesiacs were not a combination I, or any other faculty member, wished to deal with. He had resisted my inquisition until I threatened to take an obscene number of points from Gryffindor, and only then did he blurt out a name.

A boy's name.

Too stunned to flay him verbally, I took back the ingredients and sent him packing with a warning not to play with powerful things with which he had no experience. For the next week, he tread carefully around me, watching me with wariness in his eyes that gradually transmuted to confusion, and then to guarded respect. In hindsight, I suppose he expected me to spread the tale throughout the school and was surprised when I did not. We had a secret, he and I, and it formed a tenuous bond that neither of us cared much to acknowledge.

Until tonight.

He came to my quarters tonight and announced that I was a powerful thing he wanted to play with now that he had more experience. Who am I to deny anyone a learning opportunity? It is, after all, exceedingly rare that I ever encounter an eager student.

And he is eager indeed as I release him and reach for the jar of salve on the bedside table. He takes it from me, takes over the process of preparing me, and any protests I might have made die on my lips the moment his salve-coated fingers wrap around me. His hands are strong and sure; I had thought I had reached the limit of arousal, but now, with his hands caressing me, white-hot flashes searing my nerve endings, I know that I was wrong. Lust knots in my belly, plunges lower, sends me further away from the comfort of my rational mind, and all I can do is pant and moan and _need_.

He rolls away from me, onto his stomach, and spreads his legs. His fiery hair falls across his face as he looks over his shoulder at me, not quite obscuring the desire filling his eyes or the 'come hither' slant of his smile. Before I am even aware of moving, I am on him. I force myself to go slowly, stopping as soon as I have pushed past the tight ring of muscle to give him time to adjust. He is trembling, his fists curled in the sheets, but when he shoves his hips up roughly, impaling me further, I realise I have mistaken the reason for the tremor. I accept his invitation and thrust deep, burying myself within him, and our moans drown out the sound of the rain.

Grasping his hips, I maneuver both of us up so that I can reach around and stroke him once more. Seated firmly within him, feeling the heat of his body surrounding me, I know this cannot last long. I pull back, then thrust again, giving a extra push at the end to send myself deeper. It's that last little push that's the most satisfying.

A few more times, in and out, slowly to savor the experience, the newness of him, and then I set a rhythm, matching it with my hand. His soft, panting cries surround us, growing higher and more breathless as he draws closer to climax, and I am relentless, pounding into him hard and fast and deep, until he shudders and calls out hoarsely, calls out my name and a few random "oh, God"s and "yes"s as his seed spills over my hand.

I'm on the edge, my body straining towards elusive release as I thrust again and again and again, wanting just a bit more, needing just a bit more--

He grabs my wrist. Drags his tongue along my forearm, over the design marring the skin.

And I come.

In that shimmering, endless instant, there is nothing in my world but deep blue eyes watching me over a pale-cream shoulder, fiery tendrils of hair streaming down a finely muscled back, a lean body welcoming me, offering me a safe haven. The darkness, the danger -- everything that has plagued my existence for over two decades is burned away, melted by his fire.

He is indeed a skilled curse breaker, and his is a special kind of magic. Perhaps it will work on me, too.

 

-end-


End file.
